


The Watcher

by Mudd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Gen, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26046610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mudd/pseuds/Mudd
Summary: The Fishes hadn't been the first Lords of the Trident. Before them had stood a dark figure, cloaked in mystery, that none but the oldest tomes referred to as the Sword of Justice, the Liberator of Rivers, the Ironborn's Bane. This isn't that tale. This is the story of how Maric Theirin woke centuries later in a city engulfed by flames and wails, and became Warden of Fire and Blood.
Relationships: Elia Martell/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 28





	1. Awakenings

_It is said Aegon the Conqueror called Maric Mudd, not yet Theirin, into the hill where the Aegonfort was taking form._

_They spoke, of little matters, until the sun went west and disappeared under the waves._

_And when the moon shone in the night, as they watched the huts below lose their light one by one, the King turned to his trusted Lord._

_Fishes, or Trees, or Horses, wouldn't make for fine Overseers. The Conqueror said. My table is full of their letters all the same, begging me to give them the title they all so desire. Yet, there is not letter from Blue Fork, nor stamp from House Mudd. And no word from you throughout this day._ _The First of His Name continued, firm and fair. Why.  
_

_Because I wouldn't make for a fine one either, Your Grace. Answered the Liberator of Rivers. And I have no desire to rule over others, or grow fat with their work. I only wish to serve my people, as best I can._

_It is said the Conqueror smiled, then, and forwent asking one of his most Loyal to kneel, for he knew he wouldn't. Instead, he called forth the Black Dread, and sat atop its head._

_He took Blackfyre, sword of Kings, and placed it on the Sword of Justice's shoulder._

_It is said that in that hill, overlooking the starting glory of King's Landing, the last of the Mudd became the first of the Theirin, and Lord of the Trident._

* * *

" _What did you say?"_

" _Aegon knows, you fool!"_

" _All! All of it! He wants to take you! Make you say it! And then it'll be I and Ma-!"_

" _What-!"_

" _I'm sorry, i'm so sorry, there is no better way,"_

" _'Senya-!?"_

" _You'll wake, when it'll be safe. You'll wake, when we'll need you."_

* * *

Maric, the Sword of Justice, Lord of the Trident, last of the Mudds and first of the Theirins, woke up with a shuddering breath, covered in mud, to cries and blood and fire.

Panicked hazel eyes moved from the blue of the sky to the red of the buildings to the the brown of the muck, watching it all but seeing none of it.

_Where in the bloody Hells am I?_

He felt hot blood pumping in his ears, and in his hearth, and with a quickness he thought he'd lost Maric sprang to his feet, ready for a fight.

Except, the only things surrounding him were distorted sounds, and snow from the sky.

_Am in in the North? Is it Winter? How can it snow? Why?_

He frenetically moved his head about, searching for a sign of anything he could recognize, or anything that would make him remember what had transpired. Then, suddenly, when more of the white stuff fell on him and didn't melt, he realized it wasn't snow.

It was ash.

The blue of the sky had become black with smoke, and the warped noise in his ears grimly turned to howls, and shrieks, and wails, raising up into the dark like a choire of death.

 _Fire?_ Maric didn't understand. _And terror?_ _Has one of the dragons escaped? Gone mad? Or is it a showing?  
_

 _But Where?_ He asked himself. _And Why? And How?_

He turned. _Where?,_ he kept thinking _,_ and heaved a smoky breath.

Before him, elevated from the city below, stood tall one of the biggest structures he'd ever seen, with some of the highest walls and highest towers he'd ever witnessed.

And it didn't go anyway, not even when he kept staring at its crimson form, disbelieving.

_It can't be-How is this-That's-_

The Aegonfort had been torn down but a few years prior. Visenya and Lord Osmund Strong had just been tasked to construct the new castle, and but a few sections of the wall and some foundations had been put together. The Red Keep, folk already called it, after the pale, scarlet stone they'd chosen to use.

Visenya had told him it'd take long to build it, longer than they had left to live. He remembered grimacing, when she'd used those words.

Then how could it be. It simply couldn't be. That fortification was too big to have been amassed overnight, without anyone's notice, in any part of Westeros. He must have been somewhere else, somewhere far away, somehow. Maybe Lys, or Myr, or Volantis.

But why would he be in Lys, or Myr, or Volantis? And why-

Why was he shivering?

He turned his gaze down, towards himself, and stared at skin and dirt and naught more. His nakedness fazed him, but it was the way his body looked that made him gasp.

_What in the seven hells!_

He palmed his stomach, feeling only hard muscle and not an ounce of the softness he'd grown with age and easy life. His chest, too, stood out as it had when he'd been a younger man. And his arms...

Maric carefully touched his face, spreading dog shit and Gods knew what else over it, and found none of the ridges and wrinkles that should have been there.

_How?_

Before he could think more, at the edge of his vision, something shined silver and red, in the mud, and he threw himself at it without a second thought.

The Last Mudd hurriedly scrubbed away the mud, revealing iron beneath and thus what he, by some means, already knew was there.

_A dark haired common man smirked mockingly, from behind a Lord's desk. "How's the blade you spent every ounce of your tourneys' victories on? Worth the hassle, i'm sure."_

_A brown haired Lord chuckled heartily, standing at the ready before the other. "I'd say. It came out a majestic sword... and the ruby! Worthy of a King, I tell you,"_

_The other gave him a pointed sideglance. "Careful what you say, My Lord."_

_The click of a tongue. "No, you be careful, Loghain."_

_Eyes like coal shone with puzzlement, and not at all with fear."What?"_

_A mischievious grin, and a flesh of steel. "You'll have every eye on you, prancing around with this thing,"_

" _I-do not understand what you mean,"_

" _Come now. I already have a weapon of my own, and it serves me more than adequately. Hanging Liberty over the fireplace would be unfair, and disloyal, wouldn't it,"_

" _You-You're saying- You foolish, foolish-You squandered all that gold just to throw away the result of it?!"_

" _Too late to go back now! I guess it's just the way it is. And I already had the name engraved, on the rainguard, so that you can't change it. That's reward enough for me. Check it!"_

" _Maric... You named it-,"_

"Best Friend," Maric let out in a breathless whisper, hugging close, as close as he could without cutting himself, the blade he'd given to his all but brother.

"But how," It was supposed to be in Old Stones, to be kept and treasured by Loghain's daughters and their children after them.

"How," He said again. Wasn't he repeating himself an awful lot.

He didn't find an answer, if there even was one, but three men found him.

He quickly looked them over, as they did him. Maric couldn't help wondering what sight he made.

They were common guards, by the look of them, wearing both leather and mail and clad in the color of the House they served.

_Targaryen? No, not that shade. Then-_

Their hungry grazes, he noticed, soon moved to the crimson gem in the Friend's pommel.

Maric got to his feet, gripping tight his brother's blade and with all the dignity old Roslin had managed to instill into him, by stick more than carrot. He couldn't imagine it amounted to much, seeing his undress.

"Good men," He spoke, loud and clear trying to forgo his nakedness. " I seem to be in a bit of a pickle, as you surely can see, but I also seem to recognize the colours you wear. Am I right in assuming you are Lannisters, or Reynes?"

Their greedy sneers turned to confused glowers.

"This ain't your lucky day and this ain't one for assumption, matey. We ain't good men, and 'specially not to some boy lookin' like a stupid naked worm and globberin' 'bout red lions," Snarled back one of them. He couldn't tell who. They all looked like, and the noise and ash and mud were making it hard to hear and see.

He smeared the dirt in his hands on his body, and tried rubbing away the muck in his eyes and face. "Lannisters, then," Men were wild beasts, they only went wilder surrounded by fire. And perhaps things had escalated between Lions, enough to warrant the hostility.

He hoped not. Blackwoods and Brackens were more than enough for the whole of the Seven Kingdoms.

"Apologies for my state. As hard as it might be to believe, I do not know how I came to be in this situation. If you could provide a cloak, or some such, i'd appreciate it,"

They looked at him as if he were mad. "We ain't giving you shit... 'cause ye already covered in it!" The man who made the joke guffawed, and the others joined him after an awkward pause.

Maric didn't laugh. "Good man,-"

"We ain't good, I told ye!" The Lannister leered. "And ye'll give the iron if ye know what's good!"

 _So that's how it goes._ Maric didn't know why he'd expected different.

He resisted scoffing, and stood straighter. "I ask to be brought before your Lord, or whoever you receive orders from. I am Maric, of House Theirin, Lord of the Trident and-,"

The Lord was interrupted by a snicker. "Say again,"

He thanked Roslin once more, for where it not for her he'd have resorted to simpler means already. _Simpletons._

"I am Maric, of House Theirin," He repeated, slower. "The Sword of Justice, yes?" He was impartial to the title, for it tasted of mockery on his tongue, but most recognized it better than any of the other names he went by.

Those three, as it were, didn't.

This time, he couldn't keep the frown from his face. _Gods, give me strength._

"Maric Theirin, Lord of the Riverlands and advisor to Aegon Targaryen." They couldn't not know him, could they. "Y'know, the Conquer-,"

Again, they didn't let him finish. The three went for their weapons at once, their eyes gleaming with evil intent. "The fuck you say!" Barked the shortest.

"Y'know, we were gonna kill ye anyways for that piece in yer hands. Now we're gonna do it slow, ye dragon-cock-sucker!"

_That's a new one._

"Silence!" Maric boomed, in the tone he used to instill discipline in the rascals who tried passing for soldiers. It halted their curses, and their advance. "You wear Lannister red, you are sworn to House Lannister, and House Lannister is sword to House Targaryen! Don't you dare speak ill of the Dragon, not in my presence!"

"Speak ill?" The taller and meaner of the lot chortled. He was still shorter and less broad than Maric himself. "We ain't speakin' ill, we're cleanin' their shit city from the scum!"

 _Scum? What scum? And-_ Maric started. _Their city?_

"What are you saying." He said, clear and dangerous.

The one who enjoyed speaking guffawed loudly, and then each of them took steps. "That we're gonna fuck ye up, ye shit! And if the gods are good we'll have yer dragon-whores sitting on us cocks before this is done!"

They wore crimson, aye, but at those words their faces turned crimson, too, in the Ironborn's Bane's eyes.

They all charged at him, but not all at once and not at all organized, and with shortswords, not lances. Too many mistakes, not to spell their doom. It would have come slower, if they had sounder minds.

Maric swatted away the first one's clumsy thrust and allowed him to go crashing down with the momentum. The second one he sent tumbling too.

It was the third he was looking for. He'd insulted some he shouldn't have.

That one, he blocked and pushed back with a bodily shove. The Lannister looked at him with wide eyes, before erring once more.

He tried a downward swing, clumsy and weak, not at all taking into account the lengths of their respective blades.

Best Friend cut through padded armor, and the flesh below, before the man could speak another vile word.

Theirin gave a rough shake to the blade, turning the brown mud below his naked feet red with blood, and he turned to the other two.

They were back on their feet, and they were staring at their fallen comrade with expressions a mixture of rage and fear. It seemed to wake them to their faults, for they finally chose to band together.

It helped them some, but not too much.

Their smaller blades kept slashing sloppily and carelessly, but the way they tried to make up for eachother's incompetence spoke of at least _some_ formal training, or maybe simple practice against weaker foes.

Maric decided to swiftly put an end to the amateurish display when one almost graced his unprotected arm, by luck or chance.

The Sword of Justice slashed into a swipe, sending iron flying into two, and with it a finger or five.

He narrowdly avoided the other's wild jab, and then feinted up, just to quickly move down and bash him on the leg.

They had mail there, it seemed, but he'd swinged strong enough to break bone.

The lion's dog bent the knee, and looked up just in time to witness iron pierce his eye.

To the last, otherwise preoccupied with holding his hand and pissing himself, he gave his fist.

He was the tallest and meanest of the lot, the one he'd noticed earlier, Maric thought idly. He would have grinned mockingly, if adrenaline and fury weren't cursing through his veins.

Theirin kicked both parts of the broken blade away and punched the lone survivor again, when he started babbling about some thing or another.

"Silence!" He barked. "And answer my questions!"

"Yes-yes-yes-i'll answer anything m'lord-anything-just-please-please-let me-"

Maric hit him again. "Silence, I said!"

He grabbed him by the jaw, and forced him to look at the castle standing above. "Is that the Red Keep?!"

The man gargled something, and Maric realized he was clutching him too tight. He loosened his hold, but shook him strongly for good measure. "Answer!"

"Yes! Yes! Red Keep!" He coughed out, drooling saliva and blood onto the hand detaining him.

Theirin had to stop himself short of throttling the damn craven.

He shook him once more. "Is this King's Landing?! Answer!"

"Yes! Yes!" Near sobbed the coward.

 _It can't be, how can it be,_ "Has there been a fire?" Maric barked again. "One of the dragons went mad? Is that where the fire comes from?! Have you been sent to help put it out!?"

"Yes! Yes! Fire! He went Mad! Yes! Tywin Lannister ordered us here! He did! I swear!" _Tywin?_ "He gathered the army a fortnight ago-after the battle at the Trident-we ain't stealin'-we-"

Theirin punched him again, and he heard the sickening crounch telltale of teeth giving out.

"The Trident?! What battle of the Trident?!"

The man didn't answer, just groaned painfully and looked around, unfocused.

Maric backhanded him harshly.

"Ugh, Gods-Stop!" He raised his hand again, balled into a fist, and fear won over idiocy. "Robert slayed th' Dragon!" The man quickly gasped out. "I swear! I swear! We stand against th' Mad King! For th' Lion! For th' Stag! We're doing justice!"

_Slayed the dragon? What dragon was slain? No dragon can be slain!_

_But their riders can_ , a treacherous voice whispered in his mind.

"I'm speaking truth!" He cried, when a grim looked passed over Theirin's face. "How can you not know-It's the truth! It is!"

"No, it isn't." He finally muttured.

Maric shoved him down, and raised Best Friend high up in the air, contempt clear in his every motion.

The guard, before he could strike him down, threw himself at his feet, into the mud and in the ash and into his own filth, and started begging incoherently in a sickening show of spinelessness.

"I got family! Please, m'lord! Please! I got a daughters! I beg you! Please-Please-Please-!"

That was a lie too, more than likely.

And even if it wasn't, what child would grow better with such a father than with none.

No child.

Yet, before he could swing down and free the world of one more parasite, bright hazel and cool indigo flashed in his mind.

Then, he heard the pathetic sobs of the man beneath, calling for his children and his mother both.

_Damn myself._

Maric brought the poomel of Best Friend down on the back of the Lannister's head, with less force than it was due, and the craven slacked.

Visenya would be cursing his foolishness, if she were here to see, much harsher than he was cursing himself for it. But she wasn't here, was she. Which begged the question, where was she?

Again, he heard a slimy whisper in his mind, _the same place where dragon-slayers and dragon-whores reside._

Maric hastily turned to the Red Keep, with eyes filled with fear.

He understood nothing of the mess he'd found himself in, and he wasn't quite sure that it wasn't all a nightmare, but if it truly was King's Landing, and that somehow was the Red Keep, then that was the place he needed to be, and fast.

He went to place the Friend in his scabbard, but found none.

He looked down, at himself, and then he glanced at the two dead, their gear battered and bloody, and at the unconscious, his leather mostly fine, and soaked in shit and piss.

_Fuck._

* * *

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, Elia Martell murmured comforting words to her terrified daughter, whom she held with one arm while the child, crying, hugged tightly her pet cat, Balerion.

With her other, the Princess of Dorne tried lulling as best she could her infant son, a babe too young to do naught but wail at the unfairness of it all.

 _Unfairness,_ she thought desparately, _or folly._

Her thoughts turned to the Silver Prince. Her kind, deserting husband, and she almost didn't manage to beat back the sobs that wanted to course through her lips.

He was gone before he was dead, and when he was dead he took her dear, doting Uncle Lewyn with him. Oberyn and Doran, her sweet brothers, too far away to help and too far away to hear her say how profoundly she loved them.

All that remained between her family and the treacherous, conniving Lion's maw were a crazed King and its mad advisors.

So, Elia Martell did the only thing a woman could do, when men decided to run, or to die, or to be cruel.

She prayed, to the Father, for justice to prevail, and to the Mother, for mercy to be given, and to the Maiden, to give her strength. And she prayed to them all, that they might keep safe her Rhaenys and her Aegon, if not herself.

She didn't know, that the ones she wasn't praying to were the ones who were listening.

She didn't know, that the Stranger was sending Death, and that the Warrior was sending Help.


	2. Nightmares

_It is written Tristifer Mudd, the Fourth of His Name, King of the Rivers and the Hills, and the Hammer of Justice, for so he was renown, won ninety-nine battles against the invaders from the Eastern Lands, and lost the hundredth to the combined efforts of Seven Andal Monarchs._

_It is not written if Maric Theirin truly was one of his descendants, for they had thousands of years in between them, and no official records of the lineage, having lost any such tomes and all such knowledge after the Mudds' ancestral home of Old Stones was left in ruins, and its few, scattered, remaining survivors forced in hiding or exile._

_A few of his Rivermen, who'd given him the monicker of 'Liberator' after the Triumph at the Willow Woods and the slaying of Harwyn Hoare, began doubting him, for those reasons, and started resenting Loghain Treeguard, his baseborn page and his staunchest supporter, whom, they claimed, had been the mind behind the deceit._

_The discontent, some thought, had initially been birthed by the Old Lords of Seaguard, Pinkmaiden, and Stone Hedge, and spread by the same._

_It is not said, however, if out of fear of the Ironborn's eventual reprisal, or out of fear of Maric's easy personality and rapidly stacking victories, for both were fearsome things, to the greedy, and both, had all but secured him the love of the smallfolk, and even the respect of some Ancient River Dynasties, such as Frey, Darry, and Blackwood._

_Nevertheless, more than that few squinted, and protested, when Maric chose to abandon the momentum he'd gained, after the Battle of Lychester and the Rescue of Harroway, and personally led a small host to the recently fallen Duskendale._

_All but the most loyal took issue, when he bowed, for he never knelt, to the Conquering Dragons._

_Mudd died fighting foreign Kings! They said, when the War came to a head, and Harren Hoare pushed back, bringing forth a mighty army of reavers to squash rebels and invaders alike._

_He'd had them trapped, in Darry, due to a surprise landing by way of longboat, and they stood a few hopeless hundreds, against vengeful thousands._

_And now we shall die too, like his kin and his men, They cried, but not even for the Hammer of Justice!_

_Maric Mudd, for there is nothing saying he wasn't one, either, only smiled, bright and boyish._

_I favour the Sword, My Lords. He said. And I am no Hammer of Justice, you speak true, for I would have bowed, and saved the lives of my kin and men._

_All shouted and all sneered, then, at those words, and all cowed when Loghain Treeguard, just a young man of twenty, furiously stepped forward and bellowed for silence._

_But I fear I shan't bow to the Ironborn. The Liberator continued, losing his grin. And if I die, I shan't die on my knees. Like Tristifer._

_He walked to the cliffs, and faced them, bare and glowing in the light of the morning sun, as tall as a King of Old._

_But you shan't die today, My Lords. Promised the Sword of Justice, for so he became renown, after._

_Because I bowed._

_And then, it is said, the Dark Queen appeared behind him, atop mighty Vhagar._

* * *

Maric Theirin stared at the resplendant, white, and black, and crimson of the floors and walls, at the intricate golden designs of the bedposts and of the windows, at the lush timber furnishings, at the costly, immaculate scarlet satin of the sheets, and but one thought bounced through his addled mind.

_How?_

His new companion, that.

The city below had been a terror to cross, in no small part due to how much terror he'd met, and listened to, racing through muddled allies, and bloodied streets, and past burning, screaming buildings.

But just terror, and horrors, Maric had soon realized, And no dragons.

Just men, and their savagery, in the aftermath of a siege.

His decision to wear the gear of the soldiers he'd slain, in the end, had served him well for that too. He'd only snatched the broken shortsword from the pissing, lone survivor, and the rest from the one short of an eye. The blood, luckily enough, hadn't proven treacherous, in his fooling of the invading force.

Not even those he'd neared, to convince with a few stern words, or to stab when that failed, had known any better. All too dull, perhaps. Or all too drunk with the power of life and death, they suddenly held over their fellow men, and women.

Quick affairs, at least, every one of them. If no less disheartening. Those he'd lend his sword to, had either gone running, at a glimpse of his Lannister colours, or, in the case of the worse crimes, had just kept crying.

The horrors of war, Loghain would have told him, with cynical, unyielding coals for eyes.

And why we need stop them, he'd have answered, bitter, weary, and foolishly idealistic.

Still, somehow, the state of things had appeared a little too horrifying, and a little too desperate and contrived, to his old, experienced eyes.

He'd only witnessed peasants trying, and failing, to withhold the red-clad's advance. They'd been armed with pitchforks, or knives, or sickles, and wearing rusted armors, or pans, or just their thin, common garbs.

What of the garrison, Maric had asked himself. Surely there must have been one, and surely a stern defense had to have been mounted, before it all had went to shit. The walls, even just the city's, were too high for the town to have fallen quickly, or silently. So what of the last, desperate defense.

And what of the gold cloaks, he'd begrudgingly thought, or of the white ones, if the craven he'd left alive had said an ounce of truth. Where were they? All deserting? All gone? Every last one of them?

But even if it was so, what of the Dragons. He'd never seen one running, he'd never seen one trembling, not before armies of mere men, and not before anything on Planetos.

 _That's right,_ he'd breathed out in relief, running past dogs tearing eachother apart over a leg, _It can't be King's Landing, because Visenya, and Rhaenys, and Aegon, would have burned to cinders any treacherous horde, long before they could have laid the siege weapons._

He'd ignored the practiced ease with which he'd cut through corners and shortcuts, that had looked different, but had felt just the same. He'd all but torn away his gaze from any familiar sight, and pushed down any memories that they invoked.

He'd chosen to ruthlessly choke, any slippery whisper of Stags, and Lions, and Dragon-Slayers.

Maric hadn't managed avoiding looking like a Fish, though, or a Tully, when he'd found a small, rocky alcove, underneath thick, wild, creeping plants, in a secret, secluded spot, unknown and forsaken by most.

He'd seen past it, then, as he'd stared, bewildered and dreadful. Past the vines, and past the hole beneath, and past the tunnels that came after. Past the rats and critters that called it home, and past the sharp, confusing turns that he knew so well. He'd seen past it all, until he'd finally laid eyes on the inside of an austere, dour, chamber, in the very far side of the Aegonfort.

But the Aegonfort was gone, he'd thought, disbelieving, and the passage had to be something else, and had to lead to nowhere at all.

So, how was it possible, then, that the galleries had been just the same as the ones he remembered, and that at the end of them he'd not found nothing, but not anything comforting either.

 _It's not possible, that's how it's possible,_ Maric told himself, hazel eyes unblinking.

The intricate designs, the lush vanity, the costly articles, the way every lavish piece leaned into the next to form a grandiose picture. It wasn't right, none of it was.

It all spoke of Rhaenys, or even sweet Aenys. Elegant, surely, and charming, admittedly, and excessive, most assuredly.

Visenya, and Maegor, they were different, he couldn't help thinking fondly, despite a quiet, grim feeling starting to take hold of his heart.

They were fierce, those two, far fiercer than any other he knew, even Loghain, and most definitely far more than he.

He could recall still, easily, when at Tumbleton, during the Conquest, he'd watched his Silver Queen fall from Vhagar's back, or 'the fucking murder bird', as he'd called it then. He'd have shouted out, since he'd respected her well enough even then, if she'd been skybound and not on land. And not embarassingly close to it too.

She'd simply, uncharacteristically, clumsily tripped while dismounting.

He'd had to keep his laughter, then, at the way she'd gotten to her feet, huffing and puffing and seething, and glowering, daring him to say anything, and then glaring at the scrap too, as if to scare it away.

He hadn't managed holding anything in, years later, and broken Vows after, when he'd seen the same exact look from his young, stern little Prince, after a trip on the courtyard.

 _Fierce, and strong, and willful_ , Maric thought, a small thing tugging at his lips.

But, he was soon harshly reminded, nothing looked fierce, or strong, or willful, in this foreign chamber.

And nothing looked like he remembered, either.

Maric entertained the idea of rummaging through cabinets, and wardrobes, in search of dresses, or letters, or anything, that would speak of she to whom this room must have belonged.

He squeezed his cheek, hard, and stopped himself short of doing it.

He had no time to act like some common thief, Theirin told himself. He needed to find someone more trustworthy than a rat in an alley, and he needed to learn what in the Seven Hells was going on.

He dared not wish for Visenya, or Maegor, or Aegon, or Aenys, or Rhaenys, or Anora. Not with how things were. But maybe he could find a respectable enough guard, or something akin to a Councilmember even.

 _Or talking cats._ He thought, pinching himself again.

With half-baked purpose, he stepped away from the hole in the fireplace and, unwittingly, by reflex, pressed his digits on a specific spot of the wall above it.

The brick gave, and the gap closed.

_Fuck._

Maric hurriedly turned away, trying, and failing, to ignore all that was wanting to give him pause, and, in but a few long strides, he was pushing the door open.

Oaken, not like he remembered.

He stuck his head out, before he stuck out anything else, more akin to a babbling child than the old man he was.

A stupid mistake, Theirin knew. Had there been a not so friendly halberd, or axe, or sword, on the other side, then his shoulders would have been left bare before he could have cursed himself.

 _A stupid mistake_ , he thought again, _best left to the young, and foolish._

But, well, he could hear and see Visenya, in his mind, rolling her indigo eyes and telling him that, yes, indeed, he was. Not young, of course.

A fool.

Luckily, or otherwise, on the other side of the door the door there was no one, and nothing but a long, adorned, marble corridor.

That, too, not like he remembered.

Maric carefully took a step outside, half-dreading that the illustrious, wrong, grey-white of the floor would swallow him whole, and half-hoping it would. At least, then, his theory would be proven correct.

Theirin shook his head, and heaved out a breath. He couldn't allow standing around, wallowing. Not with an army turned mad by freedom and savagery, waiting voraciously just behind the castle's high walls.

They'd turn their sights to the heavens, he knew, when they were done creating their hell.

His lip twisted. And a hell it looked like, from above.

He could see the town, from the windows, and he once again found himself desperately hoping it wasn't King's Landing, that was being ravaged and burned.

He could see so much smoke that the city would have undoubtedly turned dark and black, if it weren't for the window's red glass. Through the scarlet lens, the town just looked bloody.

Maric shook his head again, and finally started walking.

After a time, he wondered if he should have picked a way, first, left or right, but he freed himself of that thought quickly enough. It wasn't like he knew where he was going.

Still, it was all very eerie, he couldn't help thinking after a few steps. He could hear nothing, apart from the sound of his boots. Not from below, not from above, and not from any room he passed by. It was like he was the only living soul of this castle that shouldn't be.

Where were the guards, he asked himself. Had they forsaken their posts, too, like everyone else seemed to have done. It was all turning laughable beyond imagination.

Laughs turned to dismay, though, when, by the time he'd cut the second corner, he'd yet to cross paths with anything other than marble and stone.

By the fourth, and by the fifth, dismay, too, began abandoning him, and restless distress started to set in.

 _What's the meaning of this?_ He asked himself, trepidantly palming and adjusting leather and a sword that weren't his. _Is there truly no one? Has this fever dream naught but shit and death in it?_

So much for not wallowing.

Maric halted his movements, and strained his ears, when he heard something akin to a loud crash, at the edge of his hearing.

 _Nothing._ He had to concede, after a time. _Am I being mocked too, now?_

Had he fallen ill? Had he been injured? To the head, perhaps? Was he dying, maybe? Was this his cruel farewell to life?

He tried concentrating, trying to recall what he'd been doing, where he'd been, before this nightmare had began, but no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much else he remembered, he could recollect nothing of importance, nothing that helped him understand.

Before he could stop himself, his fist lashed out at the nearest wall, in a bout of blinding rage.

Maric scoffed. Why was his hand hurting, now.

 _Because it's real._ Came into his mind, unbidden, a cackling whisper, like crows' cawing. _Realer than the Cruel, and as real as your role in the Wars to come.  
_

He was going mad too now. In a dream.

Good.

When Maric heard a tiny, loud popping noise, once again not well and once again far away, he was about to shout, in anger and frustration.

Someone else did for him.

The shriek was loud, and awful, and echoed everywhere, all at once. It was of the like he'd only ever heard once before, throughout his long life. At Harrenhal, when he'd beholden Harwyn Hoare ordering Brave Denys Ryger to be strapped to four horses, one for each of his limbs.

In the quiet of night, sometimes, he could still hear the sounds Ryger had made, as he was torn apart.

But, he ripped himself out of the memories, unlike those screams, this one was a woman's.

A wail so high and so woeful that it turned the once silent halls alive into a cacophony of terribleness.

Maric did the only thing he could.

He ran.


	3. Monsters

_It is written, that on the twentieth year after the Conquest, Lady Jeyne, daughter of House Mallister and wife to House Qoherys, made her hushed arrival at the gates of Blue Fork._ _Behind her, three young girls, and a small, loyal retinue._

_When she was finally brought before Ser Loghain Treeguard, by then renown Justiciar, and, some whispered, all but Ruler of the Trident, in its true Lord's absense, he took no more than a single glance at her purple and swollen face, and at those of her daughters, before sending a raven to King's Landing, where his 'Best Friend' spent most of his time._

_It is said, Maric Theirin rode_ _to Harrenhal in less than half-a-day, and took less than half-a-hour to have Alyn Qoherys, Son of Quenton, delivered before him in chains, by the Lord's own disgruntled, or afeared, garrison._

_It is said, that the Sword of Justice, then, shed iron and offered steel, and that Lord Qoherys eagerly accepted, for, he surely must have believed, youth and spryness were on his side.  
_

_It is known, Lady Jeyne, of House Mallister, soon after eagerly accepted a cloak as brown as Mudd, and became last, and best, Wife of House Theirin.  
_

* * *

Maric frantically followed shrieks and howls through doors and stairs, risking a few times to trip or fall, such was his haste, and, in the end, reached another corridor he didn't know, not all that different from the one he'd first stepped in.

Only, on this one, screams echoed clearer, and most, if not all, of the oaken doors had been turned into nothing more than wooden planks, laying about as if they'd been used as practice dummies, or, some, as if they'd been torn off at the hinges.

_The crashes._

The Lord of the Trident wasted not a moment. Maric gripped the Friend's pommel, tight, and quickly raced to the most far-off room, where the cries came from.

Once he'd stepped through splintered ruins, broken glass, and torn silks, and many such other wrecks waited him inside. And blood, too. A few splotches, on the walls, and then trails, on the floor.

Yet, to all that he merely glanced, for what had his unblinking attention were the two men, and what they were committing.

One of them was portly, and unremarkable, in the way of the highborns, while the other was easily amongst the biggest Maric, in his long life, had ever seen.

Wider than Orys and bigger than Argilac, he would have thought, if the sight infront of him hadn't forced his anger to choke his wits.

He could see the girl, tan and small. Too small, to have her hair grasped, and with such hateful ferocity. Too small, to be sneered at, by someone so much bigger, and with such viciousness and contempt.

Too small, to have a knife waved in front of her crying face.

The other, a woman, he could barely glimpse, hidden as she was behind the giant's back, but he could hear her squeals and her wails, and he could see the crimson claws holding her down and tearing at her fabric.

Other men would have felt cold, Maric only felt hot.

"What is this!" He shouted, forgoing, in his fury, to draw steel.

Four sets of eyes turned his way, two of them vile and void and black, and two of them brown, and red, and terrified.

"Papa!" Bawled the child, tears running down her cheeks, as she tried to pry away with her small hands the bigger one latched on to her dark locks.

The noble slapped her harshly, and she went tumbling to the floor with a pained yelp.

He was holding some puffs of black hair.

The mother's weeps renewed, at her daughter's cry, as did her struggles. The raper's only response, to her desperate, feeble, kicks and shoves, was a grunt, like that of a beast, and the back of his mailed hand.

Best Friend appeared before Maric in a flash of steel.

The giant, noticing, cruelly and carelessly shoved the woman down, sending her smacking on the hard marble with a dull thud.

When the thin woman began whimpering, holding her head, creating the same pitiful image her daughter was, Maric knew only the need to draw the captors away from their captives was keeping him in place.

The glout fully turned, with a contemptuous sneer. "Are you a dimwit, soldier?!" He bellowed, his voice thin and high, like the squeak of a mouse. "What are you doing here?! And how dare you draw steel?! You are lucky i don't butcher you where you stand! We are under orders from your Lord! From Tywin Lannister, you-!"

"Silence!" Maric snarled, with equal contempt. "Silence, goddamn you!"

_Orders? Orders?!_

"I command you to leave the child and the woman be!" Theirin barked, awakening the hallway behind his back with countless echoes, "By Order and Law of King Aegon Targaryen!"

If blood weren't running so hot in his veins, he would have been given pause, by their dark expressions not shifting the slightest bit into fear, but instead twisting and turning even more fiendish and sadistic.

He wasn't quite so enraged, however, not to notice the choked and awful sound the woman had made, at his words.

"What say you, Gregor?" Jeered the fat, with a grisly grin, forsaking dagger for sword. "Wouldn't you say this one is a bit too late for issuing those types of commands?"

'Gregor' just smiled, a grotesque spectacle of too big teeth and bottomless eyes.

The giant took hold of a discarded greatsword, from where it rested at the feet of a battered bed, and pointed the tip of it towards the biggest smear on the wall, and then right below, where sat discarded garbs, soaked in red.

Maric barely spared it all a glance, unwilling to let himself be distracted, but with that quick glance he glimpsed some eerie white, some odd pink, and some strange grey.

Despite himself, he was soon looking again. He wished he hadn't, when he understood.

The white was bone, shattered, and the grey were brains, splattered all over.

The pink was a tiny, unmoving hand.

Maric froze.

"Oh, look at him!" Snickered someone, at the edge of his hearing. "We've ruined the heroics, haven't we? But I suppose it's a bit too late for heroes anyhow, wouldn't you agree, Clegane?"

Another grunted. "Bit too late."

* * *

_"It wasn't right, 'Senya, you know it wasn't."_

_"Do not dare call me that, you ignorant fool! I am your Queen! And no, I don't! And you don't either! Or have you forgotten Harrenhal?! You didn't oppose then, did you?!"_

_"I didn't, Your Majesty! And I was mistaken not to! That wasn't right either!"_

_"They enslaved your people, raped them, killed them, how wasn't it right?!"_

_"Harren did, Visenya! And Harwyn, may he rot, and the rest of his fucking brood! Not the women, not the children!"_

_"Because women are the same as children, are they?"_

_"That's not the point and you know it!"_

_"Then what's the point?!"_

_"That they were innocent! And they were burned all the same!"_

_"Your King decides who's innocent!"_

* * *

"What are your names." Muttered Maric, staring, still, at the bundle of flesh and blood.

A chortle. "What matters to-!"

"What are your names." Maric repeated, with the steel of the Friend in his voice.

The same who'd spoken scoffed, then laughed.

 _Don't laugh,_ Theirin thought.

"You wish to curse us, or make peace with the Gods?" Another laugh, and another grunt. "Very well! Ser Amory Lorch and Ser Gregor Clegane sent you! Tell that to the Stranger!"

_Sers._

The Sword of Justice moved his gaze from the babe's ruined remains, to the two knights who'd made them so.

_Pigs._

Maric was glad, when the portly pig, for a moment, grimaced, as they crossed eyes. "Proof it's not a lie," Loghain always said, whenever his anger went quiet, and scorching hazel turned dark as mud.

"Amory Lorch, Gregor Clegane," Theirin started, forgoing their titles for they deserved none, "By the power given to me by Aegon, of House Targaryen, the First of his Name, Maker of the Iron Throne, Conqueror of the Western Lands, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I, Maric, of House Theirin, Lord of Old Stones and Holder of the Trident, sentence you to die."

Neither reacted as Maric thought they would, but the fools did, anyhow, all that he needed them to do.

Clegane raised his massive blade and took a step, away from the woman, while Lorch strolled closer still, away from the child, with the gait of a mouse who thinks himself a lion.

"Aegon the-? Went crazy with fear have you?" The mistaken rat mocked, chortling. "And Maric, of House what? Your of whore of a mother fucked some wanna-be lord, boy? Maybe i'll make her the kindness of bringing your bones over to the brothel. After we're done with those whores right here, of course! Hells, maybe i'll even put another dumb bastard in her belly, in exchange for the dumb bastard I ki-,"

Amory Lorch said no more, only squeaked, for, quicker than he could have raised his sword, and swifter than he could have moved away, a crimson gash turned his unsightly mug into a gruesome mess of flopping meat, and he went down with a pained shrill.

The mouse had managed rolling once on the floor, whimpering and holding his ruined snout, when the Sword of Justice dashed forward, towards the giant.

Clegane had all the advantages, Theirin knew.

He had the reach, and the size. And the strength, more than likely. Maric had naught but the speed, and had they been on the outside, or in a bigger arena, perhaps he might have been able to avoid him as long as he would have needed to, to tire him out.

But they were in a small chamber, and it was made all the smaller by the large bed, the broken furnishings, and, of course, by its other two occupants. He'd have to keep himself away from the giant's greatsword, but also them too, because surely the _knight_ wouldn't care if they were harmed in the crossfire.

So, aye, Ser Clegane had all the advantages, but they all would matter as much as his title, if Maric ended it quick.

Best Friend harshly cut the air, aiming to sever the giant's unprotected head.

The halfwits, both of them, had discarded their helmets. To better murder and rape, no doubt.

When the Friend reached almost close enough to kiss, Theirin thought it was over.

But then, faster than a man his size had right to be, the freakish monster had weaved away, and brought his own iron between flesh and swing, blocking the fatal hit.

And, he didn't stop there.

Clegane pushed back, with his blade and his mass, ungracefully and unskillfully and with strength alone.

Had it been most other men, weaker, Maric would have countered with brawn and basics. He'd have allowed the challenge of strength, and used his own to make himself an unmovable object. Then, he'd have moved. The sudden removal of opposition would have made his enemy lose his balance, or perhaps even crash to the ground. Both would have been enough.

Yet, this freak, Theirin realized soon enough, wasn't most other men.

The Lord of the Trident was swiftly and harshly sent reeling back. Then, _he_ had only half-a-moment to regain his balance, before he was forced to dodge and avoid an implacable storm of iron, of the likes he hadn't been subjected to in at least a decade, or three.

 _Bigger than a Durrandon, as strong as one, and faster to boot._ This nightmare, thought Maric, kept proving itself more and more treacherous.

When Clegane had to briefly readjust his form, courtesy of his greatsword almost scraping on the ceiling, Maric went for a feint, and then a powerful jab to the breast, hoping to rattle, or, if he was lucky, even break ribs.

Luck spat at him, naturally, and only his arm rattled, beaten back once more, this time by the too thick steel of the freak's armor.

He hadn't even left a dent.

 _A fucking mountain,_ Theirin would have spat back, if Clegane just stopped advancing, _A fucking moving one._

Cutting through wouldn't work, and neither would bashing, unlike before, and by trying to disarm, or parry, he'd likely sooner cripple himself.

He'd have to go for the weak points, then, and hope they were there. The inside of the elbows, the armpits, the back of the knees. And the neck and the head, of course, but the beast seemed to have learned from its prior brush with death, and wasn't leaving any openings, there.

But, regardless, Maric realized keenly and dreadfully, he'd have to act quick, for their arena was small, and it had only taken but a few cleaves and weaves to almost have the wall hugging at his back.

Theirin narrowdly avoided another great arc, the iron passing too close to his leather. Hurriedly, he responded with a downward swing, aimed at the knee and meant to annoy the giant's balance. If he could make him wobble, or trip, then he'd have chance to do more.

Or to at least slow him down.

Maric realized too late that Clegane, too, had been looking for a gap, and that with his hasty and careless move, he'd served him just that.

The Mountain's attack fell on him before he saw.

The gigantic greatsword hit him right atop the skull, and it soon went down and down, through bone, and through leather, and through mail, and through flesh.

Maric Theirin, Fool and Farce, did not even have enough time to emit a sound, nor to hear the awful laments of those he should have saved, or the chilling laughs of the monster he should have slaid, before he was grotesquely cut into two, in a horrendous display of strength.

Both parts of him twitched and spasmed, as they crumpled onto themselves, and when they finally touched the ground, they did so with a sickening quench.

It was thus, that the Sword of Justice failed Justice, for the last time.

Or. That's what Maric _thought_ would have happened, in the split second he'd known his body too battered and too slow to make up for foolish mistakes, best left to the young.

Afterall, the old man he'd become, despite how carefully he'd tried to keep himself, had slowly lost some, if not most, of his youth's shine.

Ancient wounds had started to ache. The life of a Lord had turned him rounder and pudgier, more than he liked admitting. Peace times, and peace duties, and less and less time in mud, or courtyards, had all but worn down the rest.

Sluggish and slouth, he'd turned, as Visenya liked saying, with a vicious smirk and tender eyes.

Yet, this body was different. So very much unlike his own, and so very much like it. This shell had none of the painful wounds, and shameful hindrances, that had plagued him, and that he'd had to grow used to.

It was better, like in his youth.

So, it was thus, that Maric Theirin danced away from the cleave he hadn't seen, as if he had.

 _Fuck!_ He screamed in his mind.

And he wanted to scream outloud, too. At the top of his lungs. Something fearsome and something warlike. Something to celebrate the forgotten rush he was feeling, at the brush with death.

Maric tried going into the offensive, then, almost joyful and most assuredly vicious, conscious of his renewed tools.

His movements, he now realized, his feints, and his swings, and his legwork, were all so much faster than what he knew he should have been capable of.

Maric was soon left sourly disappointed, though, when he was brutally and swiftly forced back on the defensive once more, by a too ferocious and too efficient onslaught.

 _Muscles don't forget,_ The old man told himself, squashing down elation best left to the young, and noticing the bricks flirting with his back, _But everything else does._

When had it been the last time he'd fought against opponents who weren't just rats dwelling in alleys, or mouse scuttling in castles. When had it been the last time he'd fought, truly fought, for his life, against other warriors.

That damnable Trial of the Seven, Maric answered himself, whence too many good folk had lost their lives.

What had they told him, then, his Friend, and his Dragon, just before the honorable butchery had started?

* * *

_"Weren't you a fool, Maric, you'd have said no. You said yes, so do whatever you must, and come back."_

_"Be dishonorable then, you gullible fool! And come back to-! Come back!"_

* * *

_Of course._

He hadn't needed tricks, then. Not even when he'd remained the last one standing for the Dragons, against two of the Green Hand. Not with how fast and how strong and how good he'd been. Not with purple eyes looking at him as they'd done.

But he wasn't as good, now, or as ready, or as steady. And there was no fierce indigo, either.

Yet, there was scared brown, and pink and red, and he was a far less righteous man than he'd been. All reasons enough to discard whatever honor he'd left and throw it away, right into the face of this dishonorable beast.

Theirin planted himself on the ground, and when the next swing came he didn't even try to avoid it, but instead crossed blades, turning himself into an unmovable pillar, with all of the strength that this new old body possessed.

The wall behind him provided support enough, however double-edged, and the Friend, too, luckily kept, its sturdy iron refusing to bow to its bigger brother.

His arms, however, soon fared worse, faced with the task of holding back impossible strength.

Clegane felt it, him giving away, and chuckled horribly. "You're dead, little man."

As close as they stood, Theirin could smell the giant's breath, but he failed to even grimace at the rot of it.

He was far too intent in utilizing the short time he'd bought to gather what he needed, and far too preoccupied in making his last gamble count.

A small, wicked thing twisted Maric's lips _,_ when one of the Mountain's eyes turned bloody, and the black glee deserted his expression.

Both of them, Clegane's eyes, soon bulged horrifically, almost out of their sockets, when he understood what Maric had done.

Theirin's grim grin widened into a vicious smirk.

Only a King amidst Fools would spit a Giant in the eye.

Maric Theirin had never aspired to be anything more.

Gregor's face, then, twisted and warped into a mask of horrendous and hideous fury, a spectacle that would have surely sent other most men scurrying, or begging.

The Sword of Justice, though, much like this Mountain, wasn't most other men, and his smirk only sharpened, for, in-between surprise and rage, there had been a second of slackness, and that single second had been all time Theirin had needed, to draw the the craven's broken shortsword from his belt, and plunge it where armor met flesh, right into the Mountain's neck.

 _Your last mistake was that of a man_ , Thought the old man in a boy's body, as scarlet bathed him, _Not that of a monster, and not that of a devil._

Gregor Clegane let out an incredulous sound, drowned by the red that was drowning him, and soon started widely, erratically, swinging around his blade.

Theirin had avoided the cleaves when they'd come from a living man.

He easily side-stepped those of a dead one.

The Mountain soon lost the grip on his greatsword, and not a moment later went crashing down on his knees, holding his throat and trying to lodge out the iron still stuck in it.

 _He'd die faster, that way,_ Maric thought, glancing at red and pink.

Theirin kicked away grasping hands, and harshly shoved Clegane face-first into the ground.

"Die slow, dog." He muttered, eyes dark.

Maric turned away, and allowed himself a deep breath and a moment of calmness.

_Done._

He quickly, and apprehensively, checked himself for injuries that he might have taken but not felt, due to battle's heat. When he was finally done, and found none, he let out another breath, slicking back brown- _brown, not grey_ -wet hair.

Maric shook his head, foolishly unmaking the work he'd done on his locks, and resolved to ignore the strangeness of it all, for the moment.

He turned to the chambers' other two occupants.

No sooner had he laid eyes on the child, and the small kitten she was squeezing in her arms, than the woman, trembling and tearing, had pushed her back, all but shielding away her small daughter with her own small self.

Her tan dress, Theirin noticed despite himself, surely once beautiful, now barely managed covering her modesty, and failed utterly at hiding the rapidly blossoming dark bruises.

Maric averted his eyes, and raised his hands, trying not to grimace in anger and disgust, and trying not to give leeway to his worse impulses, who were begging and demanding him to hack away at mouse and mountain.

"It is alright, now," He said, as slowly as he could, and as kindly as the mud and blood that covered him allowed, "I am a friend. I mean you no harm."

Clegane had stopped gurgling, behind him, faster than Maric would have liked him to. He'd need to usher them out, before he made sure Lorch was dead, too. He'd stopped twisting and whimpering, but rats did that.

Maric, again, resisted grimacing.

"They shan't harm you anylonger," He continued, just to find himself short for words.

 _And what i need say, now?_ He wondered, squinting bitterly at a cruel, mocking blemish on the wall, _An apology, for being too late? A mourne? Some void comfort?_ It all tasted of ash on his tongue.

The woman spared him, her voice feeble, "We need to-," She was interrupted by an awful, choked sob.

Maric couldn't tell if it had come from her, or her daughter.

"We need to leave," She finally managed, twice more feeble than before.

Theirin briefly closed his eyes, inhaling lightly, still facing away, before standing straighter. _  
_

"Of course," He replied, soft and firm, "If you give me leave, my lady, I shall search for some other cloths you might wear. You, and your daughter, in the meantime can wait in the hallway."

She gave no answer, but he could hear a small voice, too small and too scared, and hushed whispers, far steadier than they had right to be.

Maric averted his ears, too, and walked to a broken window.

After they were done, a plan rapidly started mounting in his mind, he'd need see the corridor was still devoid of life. If it was, then he'd give them the Friend, for the wait. He doubted the thin woman could lift a blade, much less wield one, but it'd be enough for looks, or at least to give them some semblance of safety during his absence. For Lorch, to finish him, if need be, he'd have to resort to the shortsword still lodged in Clegane's neck. Then, once he'd found a suitable garb, one not too conspicuous, and one not too impracticle, he'd lead them quickly, or as quick as possible, back to the hidden passageway he'd come from. They'd be safe there, inside those forgotten tunnels.

His sight focused on broken glass, and the red and black city beyond it, _Nevertheless, i'll need check those too, anyhow. And perhaps, sometime on the way, the woman might even be willing to answer-._

 _No_ , Theirin harshly put a stop to the thought, forcing himself not to turn and look at the red bundle.

He had no right to ask anything, and this poor woman had every right not to have anything asked of her.

 _Yet, maybe_ , _there is one question i need to ask._ Maric gazed at the ugliness of the flames outside, and glanced at the ugliness of the blood inside, bewildered by how real it all felt, _No matter how much i don't wish to._

When he heard some movement, and no more whispers, he grimaced, and tapped his fingers on the window stool.

"I might be mistaken, my lady," He spoke, hesitant. "I hope i am. But, if i'm not... if you so desire, while you wait outside, i could also wrap the babe-,"

A high pitched scream cut him off.

Another, less high and just as fearful, followed. "Behind!"

Before Maric could turn, a strong and harsh thug on his shoulder sent him spinning around, and staring into steel washed with blood.

For a moment, voices echoed in his mind, each and every one of them cursing his arrogance and idiocy. Cursing the stupid, idiotic mistake of a foolish man he'd made.

They all went quiet, when a mighty fist came crashing down on his head.

He went flying, then.

But not really.

He'd flown before.

On a brown bird, with a silver woman.

It hadn't felt like this.

Or maybe it had, once.

But no.

Even that time, it had been better.

And worse.

But it should have been just better.

It had been a happy news, hadn't it.

Best Friend hadn't been so happy, though, when he'd learn-.

The roar of a dying beast, lame and spiteful, shook him out of his still torpor; but it was a high-pitched wail, like one his little daughter Anora could have made, that gave him clarity.

" _Quick, you fool, quick!"_ Someone shouted.

Best Friend batted away reaching crimson claws, sundering bones and flesh, and, before he realized, it was lodged into something else, silencing gurgles and growls.

He stood there, for a bit, staring at half-a-head sliding from his brother's sword.

When it finally touched the ground, it did so with a sickening quench.

Funny, that.

" _The one on the floor, Maric!"_ Another bellowed.

_Right._

He walked to the unmoving mouse, slower than he would have liked, and stabbed down at him a few times.

Gods be willing, it wasn't the cat he was thrusting into. He couldn't quite see so well, and it'd looked little enough to be mistaken for a fat rat.

He faintly heard some squeaks.

_Oh, good._

" _Now don't you dare close your eyes, you fool! You hear me?!"_

_Yes. Yes. Stop yelling.  
_

When he finally managed looking up, towards the noise, he didn't quite know what to make of what awaited him.

The mother and daughter, gasping, he'd expected.

Visenya and Loghain, both barking and both worrying, he welcomed well enough.

Who had him perplexed was the bald one.

He was coming out of the wall.

 _Oh, well,_ the Sword of Justice thought, something wet and sticky turning his vision red, _It's three on one._

Maric Theirin raised his blade, took a step, and joined the corpses on the floor, two cries lulling him into a dark oblivion.

* * *

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**AN: Just to throw it out there, the 'extracts' at the beginning of each chapter are from a third party who wasn't actually there for 90% of the stuff, and who is also very much biased. So, basically, while the rough outline of events is usually true enough, sometimes things might be a bit embellished, and others they might have gone differently. Having said that, when the formula is 'it's written' or 'it's known' it's usually safe to assume things are spot on.  
**

**And a tiny spoiler, to clarify, the 'Green Hand' is a sigil. I don't wanna say more, and i** **understand it may be a bit (or a lot) jarring/frustrating having the POV character thinking of stuff you as the readers know nothing about (because it's AU stuff), but i like the idea of unveiling Maric's backstory, and the ripples he's made in the 'past', as we move along.**

**Let me know your thoughts about the chapter, and see you all next time!**


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